Page 47 of The Secret of Secrets (Robert Langdon #6)
From the moment Jonas Faukman had been thrown into this van, he had tried to manage his fear with a feigned flippancy, but it was becoming difficult to maintain in the face of the foreboding sense that he was about to be abducted to Prague.
The roaring jet engine nearby, combined with losing all feeling in his hands, left him on the verge of panic.
“I’ll tell the pilots we’re ready,” Buzzcut said to his partner. “Then we’ll load him up.” He opened the slider and stepped out, leaving the door wide open as he departed, apparently to punish Faukman for his insolence.
“It’s freezing…” Faukman said to the other man.
No reply.
The whine of jets was much louder now, and Faukman finally had a view of his surroundings.
The van was parked on a wooded service road of some sort, behind a white building that was no more than a couple of hundred yards away.
Faukman had imagined he was on a secret air base about to board a military transport, but the illuminated marquis on the building told a much different story.
Signature Aviation / Teterboro
Holy shit. I’m in Jersey?!
Signature was a popular private jet terminal at New Jersey’s Teterboro Airport.
Only twenty minutes from Manhattan, the luxurious FBO was a hub for wealthy Manhattanites to jump onto their private planes bound for business trips or secluded vacation homes on the slopes of Aspen or the beaches of West Palm.
For an instant, Faukman felt relief that he was not on a military base, but then, as the truth started to settle, he wondered if this might be even worse.
At least the military had certain protocols, and Faukman was a U.S.
civilian. If these thugs were actually mercenaries working for a rich, international whoever-the-hell-it was, there were no rules of engagement.
They could fly me out of the country…and nobody would even know I was gone!
As a fresh blast of winter wind swirled through the van, the guy in front set down his laptop and climbed back between the seats, then pulled the slider shut. “You’re right, buddy, it’s cold.”
The man had softer features than Buzzcut, of mixed Asian descent, and like his partner, he had a clean-cut military air about him. “How are the hands?” he asked.
“Honestly, if this goes on much longer, I think I may lose them.”
“Let me have a look.” The man maneuvered in behind Faukman and examined his hands. “Yeah. That’s not good.” He pulled out an army knife. “Just stay still. I’m going to cut you free and attach a slightly looser tie, okay?”
Faukman nodded, his thoughts still spinning over what he had just seen outside.
“No stupid stunts and don’t screw around with me,” the man said. “Remember, I’m the one holding a knife.”
“Got it.”
An instant later, Faukman’s hands were free. He gingerly maneuvered his arms back in front of him and wiggled his fingers to coax the blood to flow again.
The man behind him circled back around and sat on the crate, knife at the ready.
“I’ll give you sixty seconds,” he said.
“Thanks.” Faukman grimaced as excruciating needles of sensation returned to his wrists and fingers.
“Sorry about my partner,” the man said. “Auger can be a bit… intense. ”
“The appropriate literary term is ‘douchebag,’?” Faukman replied.
The man laughed out loud.
The two sat in silence as Faukman continued to massage his hands. His toes felt frozen as well; the running sneakers he had put on when he left his office weren’t exactly insulated.
“Do you want to put your coat back on,” the man asked, “before I put a fresh tie on your wrists?”
Faukman eyed his coat on the floor. Hell yes!
Half-standing and half-crouching, Faukman awkwardly slid his aching arms into his coat and savored the warmth. He tried to fasten the buttons, but his partially thawed fingers refused. “Little help?” he said, looking to his captor, who was sitting on the milk crate with his knife.
The man shook his head. “And set down my weapon? Sorry, buddy. I don’t trust you.”
“I think you greatly overestimate my potential for heroics,” Faukman said, wrapping the coat around him as best as he could, pleased to feel his cell phone in the pocket, right where he had left it.
“Okay,” the man said. “Let’s get you secured again.”
“Can you just give me one more minute? My hands are killing me.”
“Now,” the man commanded. “Turn around.”
Faukman complied, turning 180 degrees and facing backward in the van.
As he did, he found himself with a clear view out the window in the van’s rear door.
Through it, he could see the Signature Aviation building.
He could also see the parking lot, where a single SUV was idling, its exhaust billowing into the cold morning air.
The SUV’s driver’s door was open, but the seat was empty, the driver most likely inside the small terminal.
“I’ll leave it loose for now,” the man said, retying Faukman’s wrists. “But we’ll have to tighten it up when my partner gets back.”
“Thanks.”
The man finished tying his hands, and Faukman twisted his wrists slightly, surprised to find the restraints so loose that he could probably slip right out of them.
“Be right back—nature calls,” the man said, exiting the van through the side door and sliding it closed again. Faukman turned around and watched through the windshield as the man passed in front of the van, stepped a few yards into the woods, and unbuckled his belt.
Then he began urinating against a tree.
Having edited all of Langdon’s books on symbols, signs, and hidden meanings, Faukman had no doubt how the professor would categorize this moment.
A heraldic sign.
Faukman would call it something a bit less poetic.
My last fucking chance.
Attempting to escape men with guns was borderline crazy…but not as crazy as letting them abduct him to a foreign country without a fight. Worst-case scenario, they would catch him again and throw him onto the plane.
Through the windshield, Faukman could see the man was still peeing.
Once you start, it’s hard to stop.
And until you stop, it’s hard to run.
Faukman made up his mind in an instant, grateful for the countless hours he’d spent running in Central Park. If they try to shoot…I’ll be a moving target. He quickly wriggled his hands out of the tie and double-checked that the man was not watching.
Here we go…
He grabbed the handle to the van’s rear door, depressed it, and quietly swung the door open.
Then he crouched down and leaped out. The instant his feet touched down on solid earth, he exploded into a full sprint down the access road, forcing past the pain in his cramped legs.
He was an experienced runner, and his legs responded effortlessly to the sudden exertion.
His wool coat billowed behind him as he picked up speed and set his sights on the idling SUV in the distance.
Faukman glanced over his shoulder and saw his abductor awkwardly zipping up and trying to give chase. No chance, he thought, feeling the wind in his face.
The man in pursuit was yelling as Faukman approached the SUV. A gunshot rang out, and a bullet whizzed over Faukman’s head.
Holy shit!
Faukman reached the idling SUV, hurled himself into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and muscled the vehicle into gear.
He crushed the accelerator to the floor and the SUV peeled out, tires screeching as it bounced up and over the median, fishtailing out of the parking lot onto Industrial Avenue.
As Faukman sped off, leaving Signature Aviation and his captors behind, he grabbed his phone from his coat pocket, held it up to his face, and shouted, “Hey, Siri! Call Robert Langdon!”
A hundred yards away, the operative named Chinburg stopped running, finished zipping up his fly, and calmly watched the SUV disappear into the night. Once the vehicle was out of sight, he walked back to the van.
“All clear,” he announced.
His partner with the buzz cut, Auger, stepped out of hiding. “Phone?”
“All good. He took it.”
“Nice job.”
Despite their captive’s extensive experience editing suspense novels, the man had just fallen for the most basic interrogation ploy of all—the Fugitive.
Threaten someone’s life and he’ll always do the inevitable if you give him the chance—run.
There was no plane waiting, no flight to Prague. They had simply parked their van on an access road adjacent to Teterboro’s Signature Aviation services, called in a third operative to pose as a chauffeur, and then created the illusion of a perfect escape moment.
Faukman took the bait…and his escape car has a tracking device.
Sometimes, before letting a fugitive escape, they would plant a surveillance bug on the quarry, but in Faukman’s case, there was no need; he was already carrying a powerful two-way transceiver with GPS—his own smartphone.
While Faukman had been blindfolded, the operatives had quietly removed his phone from his coat, plugged it into the laptop, bypassed his passcode, and uploaded a variety of proprietary software before replacing the phone in his pocket.
“We’ve got activity,” Chinburg announced, his face illuminated by his iPad’s screen, which displayed a full surveillance interface with Faukman’s phone—location, text, voice and data received and sent.
The iPad speaker crackled with Faukman’s voice, who seemed to be leaving a voicemail.
“Robert, it’s Jonas…call me immediately!
You’re in danger—Katherine is too. This is going to sound crazy, but someone hacked into our server and deleted her manuscript…
I don’t know why yet. I was literally abducted off the street near my office.
I’m calling Katherine now, but you need to stay wherever you are. Don’t talk to anyone!”
The call was severed, and another was immediately initiated.
The second call also went to voicemail, this time Katherine’s. Faukman left another breathless message, similar to his first, except for one addition.
“Katherine,” Faukman said, “these guys said you printed the manuscript this morning? If that’s true, then lock it up somewhere safe—it’s our only remaining copy! All the others are gone…literally every last one. Call me when you get this.”
The call ended.
“A bit of bonus intel,” Auger said, sounding smug. “Confirmation that the manuscript in Prague is the only one left.”
“Finch will be pleased,” Chinburg said, pulling out his phone. “I’ll let him know.”